


Realities Bleed Through

by dianamolloy



Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-07
Updated: 2017-10-07
Packaged: 2019-01-10 07:34:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12294369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dianamolloy/pseuds/dianamolloy
Summary: Working on your birthday sucks, mostly.————————————————This probably won’t mean a lot to most of you, it’s very much a gift fic than generic for Misreall.





	Realities Bleed Through

**Author's Note:**

  * For [misreall](https://archiveofourown.org/users/misreall/gifts).



> Today is the delightful Misreall’s birthday, and y’all should go reread (because I know you’ll have read it once already) everything her clever fingers have ever typed. What, nobody needs sleep or to see their families, hop to it.
> 
> Now, I said I probably would never do presents without being asked for them (it’s my own anxiety thing not a self importance thing, people are welcome to ask) but then this wee drabble was in my head knocking away all of a sudden so ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> Names have been changed to protect the private.
> 
> Also, I’ve never been in the back of a bookshop but I asked a friend who has spent the last decade in them and her reply within 140ch was thus: A staff room full of proofs; coffee stains, goods in, staff toilets of dubious capabilities & a cash office full of 2005 paperwork.

It was lunchtime, sort of it was after everyone else’s lunch when the shop got a flurry of people but it was either eat at three pm or have lunch at eleven fifteen am, and she sat back on a chair that might be about to break any day or could simply be charmingly creaky; time would tell and hopefully if the former issue was the case it would be when someone else was sat on it.

There was a half drunk cup of coffee on the table in front of her which was failing to soothe its irked mistress. Working on ones own birthday had not been the plan, the book signing was fully staffed and she’d intended to begin Saturday by enjoying breakfast, her husband (possibly him ahead of food, her plans were flexible) and then go on some kind of walk to crunch the new leaves before the festivities of an evening with friends, good beer and music. This wasn’t a big ticket birthday, that came next year, but nevertheless being at work and dealing with someone who might be a lovely author or might be a prissy diva wasn’t the kind of roulette that had been on the cards, until a certain coworker had called in sick _again_. This would be the last break, and worse yet possibly also the last chance to enjoy a coffee, ahead of setting up in advance - then playing babysitter to - Anna Salestra. Someone who had penned a book about a happy rodent for children was unlikely to be unpleasant, but you never could tell.

It was with great frustration then that she found herself wasting some of this precious pause in the day to search for the proof copy of Nordic folklore she had been reading. Nobody else had been particularly interested, it had been passed straight to her and this last week she’d been immersed in it whenever she wasn’t at the front of the store. So, why was it it didn’t appear to be where she distinctly remembered leaving it. The stained papers, in no discernible order and dated anywhere within the last decade, were dotted around the desk as usual and a pile of copies of Weasel Skating to be signed by Anna was also there, but no folk-stories book!

Getting up to look at a promising looking stack in the corner, an unexpected breeze in the windowless room fluttered her hair around. Turning to face the door, in case somehow it had been opened at the exact moment the shop front door had been too and a freak wind tunnel had been created, she saw the door was still closed and she was quite alone. Smoothing her windswept hair back down and putting her back to the door once more, she felt the unmistakable touch of fingers trace along the back of her neck and move her hair to one side.

”This was not quite the destination I had in mind,” a deep, rumbling voice spoke into the conch of her ear. A voice that sounded exactly like she had heard dozens of, maybe more than dozens the exact number might be embarrassing to admit, times before by one handsome Englishman playing one extremely handsome fictional god.

”Hello?” It wasn’t the smartest thing to say but give a woman a break to actually answer her own breakdown induced hallucination. ”Where were you trying to go?” Much better, ask an actual question and figure out why insanity was knocking on the door today of all days, atta girl.

”A different dimension to this, one with far less attractive company,” came the purr of a reply and with it the feel of a much larger body pressing from behind, one of the _appendages_ pushing against her was utterly distinctive. 

“I’m married,” even within this she wasn’t a cheat, and this particular mirage, well his penis, felt frighteningly real. 

“As was I,” Loki ground his hips forward and inhaled along the woman’s neck, breathing in her scent as he tilted her chin upward.

”Mine’s happy,” she replied, then felt awkward - it was impolite to discuss or quip about a fairytale god’s failed relationship surely, and Catholic guilt pricked at her conscience. Should she say sorry?

”Very well,” the god of mischief laughed softly and nipped at the neck he had exposed before pressing soft lips to the tender skin. “I cannot promise not to visit in future and see if I find you more willing next time.”

As quickly as he had arrived he was gone; the air itself felt different and the smell of icy trees he had brought with him remained but was already fading. Sitting back down to compose herself and sip on the now lukewarm coffee she saw, right in the middle of the desk, the missing book.


End file.
